


Safekeeping

by FoxyTurttle



Series: Warm Plating: Lifeguard [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Buddies, M/M, Medical Jargon, Mild Sexual Content, Obsessive Behavior, Sad, Snare Lives, Twisted, confused feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 01:04:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1879167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxyTurttle/pseuds/FoxyTurttle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I said I'd do it and here it is: my take on a "What if..." story where Snare lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just spent two afternoons writing this and will probably spend two more for the second part. Don't mind me.

"We'll move you somewhere safe."

"No time. Just... just _kill me._ Quickly, before... he gets here. _Please._ At least... I know... That my death has-"

"Okay", Impactor cut him off, reaching for the Decepticon's brain module. Intent on crushing it.

His fingers had lightly wrapped himself around it when he did what he had learned not to do a long time ago.

_'Wreckers 301, lads: when you're not in the heat of battle and you're about to kill someone, **don't** look at them in the optic. You'll chicken out. Trust me.'_

He glanced up at the lone optic left.

The desperation was there. The same he'd seen in that cell when the mech had deactivated his harness and curled up on his lap, looking so Primus damn small. A yearning for something else than this hell they were in.

He chickened out.

The brain module was pocketed.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

It had been safekeeping more than anything, really. He always wanted to get back to the body but, with all that was happening, all that might have happened, he wanted to make sure Snare would stay out of any hands but his.

If things hadn't gone according to plan - which they usually did - he _would_ have crushed the brain. Make sure those maniacs couldn't reach him. As it is, they made it out alive - well some of them - so he went back for the body.

It was still where he left it: sprawled out near those (literally) blasted torture slabs, cranial unit beared to the universe.

Only there did Impactor take out the complex piece of machinery that defined someone's desires, fears, memories, everything that made that someone, and really, truly debated over his options:

1) Crush it.

2) Deliver body and mind to Perceptor - it would take some time but he _would_ get rebuilt eventually: something in the Autobot code about preserving all sentient life. Plus he did help them out. For Autobots, that counted for something.

3) Subspace the module again, haul the body on the shuttle he and Guzzle had picked for themselves and personally make sure that the 'Con - _Snare_ \- gets back on foot.

Option one was what he should have done. Option two, what he should do. Option three, what he will do.

\------------------------------------------------

Removing a cerebro-cortex from one's body was not a light affair. Most Cybertronians that attempted to save a comrade in this way either killed him in the process or, worse, condamned him to a half-life. It was far too easy to accidently severe an important connection or damage a diode or even leave a secondary piece behind.  
Impactor wasn't worried about that.

The Wreckers' survival rate wasn't only due to gusto or sheer dumb luck. It was also due to Piston's dedication to the team: more than patching them up when they got back, he gave them ways to _actually_ get back by making sure they knew their field repairs...or how to bail out if all else failed.

The harpoonist didn't remember much of his first lessons on removing a brain module. It was all mixed in that boredom, frustration, incomprehension these repetitive classes had spun in him - _'That's **three times** you give us the same course, Piston! We get it already!'_ \- and that vision of Piston, forever patient and levelheaded, keeping his ground and going on with his class.

You didn't become the Wrecker's CMO if you didn't have the stuff for it.

It's not that Impactor didn't care about saving his comrades if needed, it's just that the whole dawn operation looked so blasted _simple_.

_'Remove the cranial unit if needed - let's face it: you blow your heads often enough, you might not have to. Then detach one by one the Energon/Spark connection tubes. You don't need surgical precision but you do need to be **gentle**. You can then subspace the piece in a virgin space._

Simple, yes... and so easily forgetful for it.

He remembers with vivid clarity that young cadet. The one that had gone through shootings and minefields to get to his injured friend. Prying out his cortex once he realized he wouldn't make it like this. Impactor never knew much about medecine but he had had a funny feeling that the kid was doing it wrong.

He had hoped _he'd_ been in the wrong.

The cadet, that fine soldier he had thought of putting on the reservist list, had fallen to his knees in despair when he was told that that nut he'd brought back, the one who was supposed to hold his comrade, was cracked. Gone was his friend.

He later had asked Piston why.

_"It's all rather simple, really. Our memory files and cognitive processors might be here", he had said tapping his forehead, "but our essence, our life is here", then tapped his chest plate. Right over the spark._

_"Rossum's trinity taught us that the brain module, the spark and the T-cog are interlinked and that **damage** to one can lead to the other two to shut down and thus bring death. When it comes to extractions, however, you only need the first two."_

_He had paused then, making sure Impactor was still following. "A cerebro-cortex is a piece of machinery, concrete, which makes it easy to handle. A spark, however, is pure energy. You cannot just take it out and expect it to survive without special handlings like those machines in Garrus-9. And that's when things become really interesting."  
There had been that special glint in his visor. The one that said that this, whatever they were talking about, was what had gotten him in medecine in the first place._

_"We are Transformers. Our nature is adaption and our bodies have shown it time and again, not just by our transformation capabilities but with our failsafe programs. Those that have been in our processors since before recorded times." His voice had fallen to a reverent whisper. "We still don't know who wrote them."_

_"Anyway", he shook his head clear. "We have a lifeforce that cannot survive out in the open, and we have a data holder containing what makes us who we are **but** which is nulled if not surged by said lifeforce. What do you think happens then?"_

_Impactor had chose to remain silent._

_"They **join**!", Piston got on excitably, absolutly undeterred by his silence. "When the cerebro-cortex is removed, it usually means that the body host is no longer suitable to sustain life. So in an impressive show of survival, the mother program makes us transfuse our spark energy right into our cortex! The place that "only" held our data becomes a receptacle for our lifeforce. The **two** things that can bring back a Cybertronian from the dead are made to work together to ensure that rebirth. Isn't it amazing?"_

It'd been hard to ask his next question. Barely contained rage threatened to unleash upon a good mech who had just explained to him how to save a Cybertronian, so...

_"How come it didn't work here?", he'd bitten out._

_"Uh..." Piston had coughed himself back into the composure he was known for. The one that had gotten him on the team. "As I've said during my lectures, you have to disconnect the tube connections **one by one**. The transfusion itself is fairly rapid, but not instaneous. Removing the first tube launches the process, taking out the rest ensures that there is enough time for a proper transfusion. From what I understood, the cadet basically ripped out the cortex from the cranial unit."_

_The medic had then become somber. "Putting it into his normal subspace just was the finishing blow. Virgin space is primordial to keep our rather fragile module brain intact."_

_Impactor had merely nodded._

After that, the ex-leader of the Wreckers had paid full attention during Valve's lectures, on brain modules or others. And he had made damn sure the rest of his team did too.

That's why he wasn't worried about Snare's current well-being: he'd done everything right, he made sure of it. It was his revival that worked him.

He had his body. Good starter. Full body rebuilding was not only expensive but required time. He hadn't the credits nor the patience for it. And if he decided the help the Predator, he'd be damn if he left him behind on some shoddy facility.

He knew engineers that wouldn't look at the color of badges. Nor ask questions about an Autobot going so much out of this way for a Decepticon. That was good too. The damage Snare had sustained from that tortionnist needed to be repaired before putting his cerebro-cortex back.

The real problem was finding a medic. Removing a brain module wasn't, well... brainy. If you knew the process, anyone could do it. Putting it back was another story. There was a reason for the existence of medics, for their differenciation with engineers: they didn't just knew the body, they new the insides, the circuits, the connections, the spark...

Well as much as was discovered about the spark.

Putting back one's essence in their body was a delicate procedure that only professionals could successfully do. Impactor knew mechs he had used a medics, but he wasn't sure if their title was earned or self-declared. He wasn't going through all this trouble to save the Predator only to have an wannabe doctor kill him off with his incompetence.

And there came the other problem. The one he didn't want to aknowledge. The one he pushed away again so he could think over his medic situation.

_Just why was he even doing this?_

\------------------------------------------------

Guzzle was a good companion.

He hadn't talked much to the mech during Garrus-9, but again neither of them were talkers. Both of them charged into battle, gun pointing forward, a primal cry escaping their vocalizers. And they turned a battle into a massacre.

For how much muscle the Wreckers needed, the whole thing on Pova and then the confrontation with Overlord had showed Impactor just how far he couldn't go anymore. How far Guzzle shouldn't go. Not in the midst of the Wreckers' ranks, at least.

For how simple the little grunt could be, he had gotten the hint. When Impactor had marched towards the shuttles, he hadn't hesitated to follow. No words were exchanged. There needn't any.

If the ballistics expert had been surprised by their little detour to Garrus-9, he didn't tell. If he recognized the flyer the ex-Wrecker had over his shoulder when he had come back to the shuttle, he didn't say. If he had a problem with the fact that the body was stored in the harpoonist's room, he didn't voice it. He might have showed it. Impactor had made sure not to cross his optics during the time his little errand took, so he didn't know.

He knew this, though. When he had stepped out of his quarters, Guzzle had been prepping the ship for their departure, lifting up his head as he heard the "swoosh" of the door.

"Where to, chief?", he had asked.

No judgement in those optics, no second-guessing of his decision, just simple acceptance. And an eagerness to get things done.

Guzzle was a good companion.

\---------------------------------------------

The shuttle wasn't very big. Actually it was diminutive. Meant to accomodate a crew of three or four, it consisted of a small bridge, a tiny weapons' storage, a little infirmery and a narrow access to the engines.

Guzzle had taken over the weapon's storage as a room. Impactor hadn't mind, he was even amused by the gleeful vocalisations of his so-far silent partner at the sight of walls he could mount guns on. So the ballistics expert _could_ be a talker when the right subject was broached. A smile had quirked his battered faceplace: he was liking the grunt more and more.

As for the ex-leader of the Wreckers, he had been content to take the infirmery as his own. He had quickly learned that it suited his needs best, anyway. When he first had brought Snare's body aboard, he had simply deposited it on his berth for lack of better place and hadn't thought of it anymore. He had had his first problem when he came back for recharge: as much as he was used to it on the battlefield, sleeping next to a corpse in his own recharge slab didn't sit well with him. Even if the mech wasn't technically dead.

 _'Makes it worse if the mech ain't dead, in a way'_ , a voice had piped up in his head. _'Does for a pretty pathetic sight.'_ He hadn't wanted to clear out _why_ it made it pathetic. Another of those questions he was thoroughly ignoring.

That's how he found it. As he was scanning the room for another place to lay the body (he didn't really wanted to put it on the floor), he noticed that one of the few machines onboard seemed hollow. After further inspection he realized that their shuttle came equiped with a CR chamber.

 _'A body can go a long time in the worst of conditions and still host a spark again'_ , he remembered Piston saying. _'When he has the time and the tools, a medic can repair about anything. And you have all the time of the world when you work on a corpse. However'_ , he had added. _'If you can, try to keep it in a sterilized environment. It'll give less work to the medic and that means your buddy will get back on his feet faster.'_

The CR chamber couldn't repair Snare's body because the technology reacted to spark energy, but it was ideal to store it in. He wouldnt even have to turn it on, saving what little ressources they had now.

The Predator properly dealt with and his berth now free, Impactor could now rest. The second his head met the slab he smelled the Energon the corpse had left.  
Snare's Energon.

For how pathetic he knew it was, he couldn't get himself to clean it.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

He had found an engineer to repair Snare's body.

Which was a relief for, each time they had had to haul it out of the CR chamber so the two Wreckers could use it, he had been concerned to worsen the damage to the cranial unit. Pretty much any body damage could be dealt with enough time, yes, but also with enough resources. Something they were sorely lacking of at the moment.

He knew he'd been as careful as he could, but the corpse still got banged and dropped a bit. You didn't always mastered your movements when you lost too much Energon. Strangely he hadn't had to ask Guzzle to do the same: the few times he witnessed him handle the body, the ballistics expert had been deliberatly slow in his movements. Impactor sometimes wondered if it was a rest of gratitude from G-9's events or just that odd acceptance of his again.

Either way, he went along with the harpoonist's whims.

Going as far as accompanying him on some suicide mission to get those blasted repairs. He had made sure the little grunt was present when he had made the deal with the Neutral - _'So we have deal: get my friend out of their hands and I'll repair that Decepticon.'_ -, made sure to tell him he could do this on his own. Guzzle had just prepped The Judge and followed suite.

The little grunt really was something.

\---------------------------------------------

One of the reasons they stopped every other planet was because of how cramped they were in the shuttle. They had enough space not to trample on each other's feet, but not enought to really move about: the width of the bridge was gaped in two steps, you could had three more steps in length if you counted the little corridor that led to the engine access; on the right and left of it were respectfully the infirmery and the weapon's storage. They didn't really have the space to properly blow the steam two Wreckers would produce, so they made sure to stop as often as possible to move freely and keep in shape.

This ship design also meant that the door to their makeshift rooms led directly to the bridge. There might have walls but no _privacy_.

They were soldiers, they had had to intimately share their space with a comrade, a troop, even a full army, and that on numerous occasions. They had learned not just to deal with the lack of private time, but also to enjoy the constant presence of good friends. And to lose whatever prudeness they had if they ever wanted to get some.

Impactor knew Guzzle wouldn't be phased by hearing his partner tumble with someone. He could be, however, by the type he kept bringing back.

There was a flyer on his berth. Red on his plating. Just highlights, and they were too flashy, but still, red. Also too dainty, with not enough armour to cover frail limbs, and a simpering act that gave the nature of his job right away.

Green optics.

And that's what had really spurred the choice. Because he couldn't seem to resist that color anymore.

"Watcha waitin' for?", the buymech cooed. "You shy, sweetspark?"

If the Wrecker had been shy he wouldn't have taken the habit to pick a mech after every mission, getting rid of excess charge and nurturing something he didn't really wanted to define. Wouldn't actively been looking for some ressemblance to a particular figure. Or cave in at every flash of green, because once the lights were off who cared if he was with an airborne or a grounder; those optics made the illusion real.

He held something towards the mech on his berth.

"I want you to wear this."

The simpering stopped, green glanced at the object with suspicion. The voice that spoke wasn't sugar coated anymore: "Props cost extra." The position was more defensive, the face was hard, the voice had gotten deeper.

It was perfect.

"I'll pay you double if you wear it and drop your act."

An optic ridge was quirked, then the mech slowly shook his head, chuckling: "You're one of those that get off on harsh reality, uh?"

More like harsh reality made itself desirable to him. On a floor, once upon a time in a hell called Garrus-9.

"Want me to fight too? Or play dead?"

"No. I want you to wear this and be _consensual_ as I take you. You're welcome to enjoy yourself, but _don't_ whisper stupid scrap in my audios."

The laugh he received was genuine but held that bitterness one had when going through too much slag in life. It sounded even better once the mask was on.  
He took this one on the floor.

\------------------------------------------

He still hadn't found a medic.

It didn't bother him at first because he hadn't been able to afford one just yet. Thanks to a mission on Aquaria they'd taken, he now could.

He hadn't really liked playing mercenary but when you no longer had Autobot HQ funding you, you did what you had to do. And he did refuse when he didn't like what he was asked to do. Or went _pro bono_ if they were that desperate.

Between his habit and the occasional bar-hopping he did with Guzzle, he hadn't been able to properly save any money. The numbers were going up but they were doing so slowly. It gave him time to ask around, get info on prices, on reputations. It also allowed him not to actually set things in motion.

It was funny, really. He had went through all these efforts, salvaging the Predator, facing a possible rejection from his only crewmate, putting his life on the line to get him repaired and raise the money to bring him back... and now that he could do it, he realized how close he was to chicken out.

He'd gotten crazy with the money, visiting a high end brothrel who served the sweetest Energon and your deepest darkest desire at discretion. That night he took a red and black jet with green optics...and a Decepticon symbol. For the first time since forever, he fragged with the lights on full blast.

When morning came, along with the mandatory hangover came a keen sense of guilt. He looked down at the body sleeping beside him and thought of one stored in a CR chamber and of a brain module in virgin subspace. He thought that maybe, probably, this was as close as he'll ever get to the real deal because, really, what could he expect from a Decepticon?

 _'And what should you expect from an Autobot?'_ , he brooded as the mech beside him stirred. To salvage all sentient life, to not ask for anything in return, _to do the right thing_. He was a Wrecker, first and always, he could use that for his defense in whatever trial his processor was putting him through. But, deep down, he knew that Wreckers, in their own way, were there to ensure that the Autobot code was followed. Impactor found it ironic to have this realisation as he was deliberatly breaking that code, spending the money to bring back someone by getting one last frag from a copy.

He'd gotten out of there with considerably less money... but, suprisingly, just enough for the operation.

He'd wandered back to the shuttle, pondering over that strange coincidence and wondering still if there was such things as signs. He was met, upon boarding, by the sight of Guzzle happily nesting in newly acquired weapons. If "cute" had been in his vocabulary, he would have described it as is.

Looking at him, he had thought, briefly, of doing the same. Upgrading himself for better results on the field would help them way more than another mouth to feed - _what makes you think he'd stay?_ -, maybe get a couple shiny new guns himself. Sure couldn't hurt. And his paintjob could use a touch-up....  
But no.

Impactor was fine with how he looked. He was less with how he felt.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the end, it's Guzzle that got him to do it.

They had been separated during a mission, blasting their own way out of danger and getting their afts, as well as the civillians they were liberating, to the rendez-vous point. As their ship landed at their employer's place, emptying its overcrowded, traumatised bowls, the ballistics expert had turned to his companion and pointed at one of the Cybertronians he had brought on-board:

"That one is a medic."

The thing with Neutrals was how distrustful they were of badges, but if you saved their afts from Mechanibals, they tended to turn a blind eye to factions. The one asking for help or the one on their table.

It had been eleven hours since the skinny medic and his team had taken Snare's body and mind away. Impactor was still stubbornly posted at the door.

Swoosh. Out came the medic.

"It's done. We didn't have complications but the moment of truth is always when we wake them up. We were wondering...", he hesitated. "We were wondering if you could be present."

The Wrecker eyed him. "You're asking me if he's gonna try to shoot me on sight."

A grimace. "Basically. It's best if someone the mech knew is around for the wake-up. We see right away if the memory got corrupted, but if it's going to be a problem..."

Impactor was already up and past the door. In the middle of the room, Snare laid flat, a tube connecting his chest to some beeping machine. His face was bare.

The Wrecker un-subspaced the mask. He'd cleaned it good, even giving it a polish. It had no trace of the myriad of strangers that had worn it.

He lifted it up inquisitively. "Can I put this back on before you wake him, Doc?"

"Sure, whatever", was waved back at him as the medic affaired himself on the machine.

Leaning over the Predator, Impactor brought the mask to his face. Click, it did as it got back to his rightful place. Now everything was good to go.

The mech typed up something on the machine and the beeping intensified. Hydraulics were heard, some liquid was sent into the Decepticon.

Slowly, the body stirred. Very much like the one Impactor had woken up next to, only this one, he reminded himself, was the real one. Optics started powering up. Little by little, that green colour that had haunted him so shinned stronger. A flash of green glanced in his direction. One he couldn't buy. One he didn't know if he ever could have again.

"Impactor?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the need to quote a famous family line here: THE DRAMA OF IT ALL!  
> Also as I wrote this, I have reached the conclusion that Guzzle is a real trooper.

Moving was painful.

_'Your body was **dead** for a long time. It's going to take a while for it to get back to prim shape. Take your time when you move, don't overtax yourself and **don't transform** until you got your normal range of movement back. And even then it's like moving: go slow and don't overdo it.'_

Dead.

He slowly lifted up his hands so he could see them above his cockpit. His shoulders cracked, his wrists groaned and he felt a low throb of pain from the action, but he _managed_. A couple days ago he couldn't even twitch a finger. He took a long, hard look at them, at these appendages that were _dead_ not a week ago and felt... nothing. A creeping numbness of mind that spoke volumes. He powered off his optics.

He still had a hard time processing the situation he was in. One minute he was on the floor, his head cracked open and begging to be killed, the next he woke up at an unknown location, fully repaired but feeling none of it. It was a 180° turn whose only constant was the very thing that bugged him the most.

Impactor.

He couldn't figure out the mech. He spends his whole life notoriously hating anybody sporting the purple badge, ripping them apart first chance he got, and ends up going _monumentally_ out of his way to bring back to life a very member of that faction. All because of what? That one time where they exchanged fluids?

_Soft keens. Harsh rythm. A whirl of pleasure._

The Predator shuddered. He wished he'd stop having those flashbacks, but somehow that misshap of his couldn't get out of his mind. He didn't even really see it as misshap anymore to be honest. Snare may be confused as the pit about the whole blasted thing, but he was perfectly aware of the circonstances around it: the death, the horror, the despair. When you lived through that constantly, there was so much you could take before your broke down. Some went crazy, some went violent, the Predator took a gamble with a dangerous prisoner.

And, in a sick way, he'd won. It took his mind off of things, not only in the moment but a long time after; rekindling long forgotten pleasure in Stalker's company, diverting his mind from the madness around him, reminding him that he _wasn't alone_ in this hell. Impactor may have saved his body during that last stand against Overlord, but he had salvaged his mind long before that. 

He wondered if it had been the same for the Wrecker, if that had been the reason why he saved him. He wondered if he'd had done the same as he'd been in the same situation. 

Probably... 

Hell had a way to change you drastically.

 

\---------------------------------------

Impactor had given him his room.

When Snare had gotten strong enough to safely leave the ward, they had departed from the Neutrals. It'd been a strange experience to be carried around so gently by a former enemy. Because at this point, it was clear they wouldn't shoot at each others face anymore. He'd gone through the streets in the arms of the Wrecker, curiously peering around at a place he'd been in for a while without actually seeing much of. 

He'd been a bit unnerved by the stares, though.

The little Wrecker - Guzzle - had been trotting about, valiantly keeping up with his taller comrade and waving his handgun at anyone who got a little too close. To think he'd nearly blown his chassis off back at Garrus-9...

When they had made their way to the shuttle, Snare had been a little worried by the size. That worry increased tenfold when the little brute had grunted something about where to put him. Impactor hadn't even spared him a glance, going straight for a little room on the right of the small corridor. There he was softly deposited on a berth before being left alone.

Engines had soon been fired up and, from the tiny window above the sink, he'd seen space appear.

He's not sure how long he stayed there, looking out at the stars, dozing on and off as some irrepressible fatigue took over him. Because that stroll through town had been such _excitment_ , hadn't it? All he knew was that he was pulled out of his daze by a knock on his door.

Did he say a knock? More like a boom.

In walked the little Wrecker, a cube in hand and something under his arm. "Impactor wants you to drink this. Said it already had the additives the Doc wants you to take." He unceremoniously gave him the cube, then walked to a corner of the room where he stored away what turned out to be a box of vials. "There. Those were the additives", he helpfully pointed at the refrigerated cabinet. "Impactor said you gotta take them until there's no more."

Snare just tiredly looked at him. He didn't really know what he could say, and, honeslty, the Autobot didn't seem to be expecting an answer.

"This is the infirmery, by the way. Kinda makes sense to put you here, though I got no idea where the chief's gonna sleep now." Then he left.

During that whole interaction, Snare hadn't moved from his reclined position. Once the diminutive grunt had stepped out, he had straighten himself (with great help from the berth's mechanical system), taken off his faceplate and idly sipped the cube. So this was Impactor's room, uh? Come to think of it the harpoons mounted on the wall should have been a clue.

Putting down the cube of bitter Energon (still a gourmet feast next to what he ingested in that blasted prison), he lost himself in the vastness of space again.

He had made it. He was on a spaceborne vehicule, lightyears away from Garrus-9, in the bed of a convicted Autobot.

So why did he feel so lost?

\-------------------------------------------

Routine quickly set itself.

Sometimes during the early cycles, Guzzle would march in the infirmery cube in hand, grab a vial of additives and put the whole thing next to him before departing. Sometimes during the first few days, he'd drop in quickly with another cube, notice the still half-full one by Snare's side and just walked back out. Now he just took a peek while to check on the improvements in the Decepticon's appetite.

No words where ever exchanged.

It was actually eerily silent on the ship. Boarding with two brutes you'd think that boisterous cries and laughter would be heard, that they'd have arguments of such volumes the walls would shake. Or at least that they'd pace around restlessly, the echoes of their pedes heard from anyone. None of that happened. The walls were thin so in between his dozing-offs he sometimes heard them grunt something to one another, though it was too inintelligible for him to understand. It was usually short and announced a new stop. Other than than, he sometimes heard one of them walk to the engines, shuffle a bit on the deck or enter the next room.

He would have thought himself the reason for such silence, as in to keep guard or secrets, but he knew better; he was in no shape to be a threat (not that he was even one in prim condition), they looked pretty much on their own so no big reveals could be feared and, well, the Predator knew that type of grunts rather well by now: they usually didn't give a damn about what others thought. It standed more to reason that these two weren't particularly talkative and had no qualms with the other's silence.

Snare was then left pretty much alone. He'd often doze off, his body still coping with the fact that it was alive again, or he'd dreamily stare out the miniature window, idly trying to recognize the star systems or whatever scenery he could see of their stops. Little by little, too, he worked on getting his body to move again. 

Following the doctor's instructions, he made it his job to shift every part of his frame on a daily basis. He'd wiggle his fingers, turn his wrists about, lift up his arms, bend his knees and try to pull himself upright. All really slowly and very deliberatly. It left him panting, diffuse pain tingling all over his body. And thoroughly exhausted. 

Progress was slow but made. Stubbornly keeping on, he reclaimed his body one smooth movement at a time so that by the time the routine had been broken, he'd regained must of his upper body range.

The Predator had been the enjoying the newly acquired _unhelped_ upright position when in strode Impactor.

He hadn't seen him since he had been brought to this room, had barely heard him from the other side of the wall, and now he was there, face-to-face. Snare found himself slightly unnerved by this sudden turn of events.

The silence he had basked in, the calm nothingness of sounds that had soothed frazzled nerves, effectively disconnecting him from the horrors he'd live through now felt heavy. As the Wrecker loomed over him, a flash of gritty walls, desperate wails and mad, unforgiving red optics crossed his mind. For a moment, he thought that all of this had just been the eye of the storm, that, really, he should have expected it and, worse, found himself resigned to his fate. So be it, he was just damn too tired to fight it.

"How you feeling?", the harpoonist had then said. And though gruffly said, it held a startling awkwardness. Like an empurata victim trying to hold something delicate for the first time since their sentence, being as careful as possible with an action that wasn't new but had become a challenge... and a source of distress.

Snare shot him a level look that held no bite. "Better. I hope to stand up soon." That last part had been unnecessary, he was as much a talker as they were, but he had felt the need to throw a line. However unhelpful it might be.

"Good", the other had nodded. "If you ever need help, just howler." And he made a turn for the door. Snare was _tired_ , he didn't feel the will to ask or even think about things, but before the Wrecker dissapeared again for who knew how long he felt the need to ask:

"Am I a prisoner?"

Impactor stopped dead in his tracks. Snare idly wondered if he'd done something wrong. He couldn't really bring himself to care.

"No. No more."

The door closed on his back.

 

\---------------------------------------------------

He wouldn't howler.

Traumatised beyond words, numbed and resigned to any bad things that might occur again but not without pride. He'd laugh if he wasn't afraid to sound hysterical.

He'd done it. He managed to stand. And strong from the achievement he'd thrown caution, doctor's instructions and probably the broken remains of his sanity into the wind and made a few _steps_. The room was tiny but Pit! was the door farther than he thought.

Going to it had already been a hassle, now he looked at the distance separating him from his berth - _three steps_ \- and it was Garrus-9 all over again. He still wouldn't howler.

Taking a deep in-vent and bracing himself, he gently pushed himself from the wall and made his first step back. He was already in trouble. His legs tried to give out on him, he briefly flailed his arms in search for an imaginary support then his reflexes kicked in and he lunged. He got his arms on target but no more, leaving him in a familiar position as his legs spread out and his aft hung in the air.

 _'At least, there's no Stalker around to rut me this time'_ , he tried for grimly optimistic. Just as the door swooshed. Great. The little grunt really had wonderful timing.

Awkward silence hung over them. It stretched.

"You either take advantage or help me out", he deadpanned. He was tired, he was hurting, he was uncomfortable, what's a little more embarassment could do?

A staticky noise, then from the deck he heard Guzzle ask: "What's going on, chief?" Snare whirled his head around much faster than he probably should.

Oh, frag his life.

It was Impactor at the door. In his hand was a cube and in his optic some intensity he'd only witnessed - _On his back, in the cell_ \- once upon a time. The Predator eyed him over his shoulder. Haven't had moved a milimeter, he couldn't decipher what would the Wrecker's next actions would be. Clearly, he was interested, but would he actually do it? The same could be asked of Snare: as unnervingly as it was, he was just as interested by the other mech and could already feel those pinprickling waves running down his lower stomach, but would he _do_ it? He was tired, in body and spark, and he still wasn't sure of the implications of such actions. 

In his fantasies, he had had no choice, free to enjoy what was given to him. Here, it looked like he had a say... and he wasn't sure what to do.

It's in a strange roundness that he got out of this situation: just like his body had gotten him in, it had gotten him out. His legs gave out. Suddenly the opposite he was staring at turned into the ceiling and large, strong arms found themselves around him. Behind him he heard the sound of a cube crashing to the floor.

As quickly as he'd fallen, he found himself hoistered in the air, body pressed against a broad chassis. When he was put back down on the berth, those hands that had helped him strayed... before attempting to flee. Something was triggered in him by the image of those escaping hands and, just liked he leaped to safety earlier, he saw himself instinctively lunging, trapping them in his own and keeping that warmth close.

It all had happened in a matter of seconds.

Keeping the hand pressed to his collar, his chin tucked in over in added safety, he stubbornly looked down at his cockpit. From upfront, he heard the retreating steps of the grunt. Impactor remained silent.

Another hand, one bearing a harpoon, found its way to his thigh, caressing lightly. It was strange how soft such blunt fingers could be. The Predator nuzzled the hand in response. The caress turned into rubbing: more confident, more insistent, more _satisfaying_. A pleased sigh left his vents. The hand he had captured slowly turned about and lifted his chin. His stern green optics met searching blue ones. His mask was traced. He hoped he wouldn't be asked to take it off.

Instead a forehead met his and a gust of warm air washed over his cockpit. That hand on his thigh slid up. His own too, towards that chassis. His optics had glazed and his vents had stuttered. 

Now he knew what to do.

\---------------------------------------

It probably wouldn't last long but he didn't really care.

He was comfortably draped over Impactor, kept nice and warm by the mech underneath who took all the space on their narrow berth. The Wrecker had been fast asleep. He usually was after their trysts, optics powering down not long after his climax, leaving Snare alone with his thoughts. He didn't mind. He was a loner by nature and, while he didn't complain about Impactor's frequent housecalls - far from it -, he found relief in these moments where he faced the universe. 

Literally. 

He gazed at the milky way they were passing. through that minuscule but oh, so important window. In a period where he could have felt stifled by his own body, it had given him space. Again, literally. But also figuratively as he let his mind wander accross that glimpse of universe. 

Now he could walk. And while asked not to stray, had not been prevented from leaving the ship. Usually he stayed within eyesight; he was still weak and he rather they found him easily if he collapsed. His world had expanded but he always came back to that window.

The chassis underneath him stuttered in a loud snore. A soft chuckle was heard. Loud, soft. it described them well. Impactor was boisterous by nature, in his emotions and in his actions. Snare was more reserved, hiding everything away with his posturing and his mask. But the Wrecker could be uncharacteristically gentle when they touched, not lacking passion but deliberatly mindful of the state of his berth partner. And Snare found himself surprised by the constant volume of his vocalisations. That time in the cell and that time with Stalker had been some of the few where he'd been so vocal; he usually was more discreet.

He would have berated himself for being so wanton if he still cared for such things as reputations. As it is, the only one who could have judged was the little brute who slept next door. And he clearly cared as much as Snare.

What the Predator did still care about was what little privacy he had left. Mainly, his face. He clearly remembers how bare-faced he had been when he died, but in such circonstances it hadn't been important. Now, however, he was alive again, and bent sent on keeping that quirk of his. The Wrecker had inquired once, briefly, but the Predator had shied away. the subject wasn't brought up again.

And it was better that way.

Impactor shifted in his sleep. Snare peered down curiously. The Wrecker settled down. The Predator kept looking at his face.

He never quite understood why Cybertronians with faces were so eager to display them. To him, the level of intimacy when one hadn't his expressions shielded from the world was _frightening_. How could he, a lone mech in this big universe, give someone the key to decipher his inner thoughts? The power to undo him?

How could he, a reserved Decepticon, give a brash Autobot - a brash _Wrecker_ \- the means to shackle him forever?

Because the second that mask comes off, he won't have anything left. And the uncertainty, the confusion, the yearning... all of it will be unleashed, and it will grab hold of that strong chassis for support. And he won't be able to leave anymore.

It probably wouldn't last long. This... whatever it is, was bound to erode eventually. The passion will fade out and the boredom will settle, and he will be back with Stalker again. Or the passion will rot and the abuse will start... and it will be Garrus-9 all over again. He couldn't afford to clip his wings when he'll have to fly eventually.

 _'Flying would be good'_ , he thought as his wings twitched. Soon.

For now he laid his head on the warm plating that had started this mess and let the engines lull him to recharge.

It probably wouldn't last long... and he hoped he will be ready when it won't.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Here goes.

He pulled on the mental trigger that started the whole process. Something deep within him gave out a low shriek and he felt his body putting itself apart, twisting and turning, re-arranging every part of his frame. Hydraulics hissed, joints groaned and a dull pain washed over him. But he kept on. Soon, he was as seamless as he was before he started the whole thing. Only different.

He had managed to transform.

The little grunt tilted his head. "You okay?"

"Mmmh...", he answered, experimentally revving his thrusters. No pain beyond an annoying itch. So far, so good.

He looked up the sky. This planet's was green, tinged with a bit of yellow and blue clouds. He thought of soaring through it, of the wind caressing his winds.

Of the open air.

He was over the cliff before he realized what he'd done, falling. His nose pointed towards the ground that was getting closer and closer. Soon he'll be crashing right into it. Bye-bye hard recovery. He heard above him Impactor shouting something at him. Something about getting himself upright.

Silly Autobot.

Silly _grounder_.

His nose was barely brushing the dirt before his thrusters went full blast, bringing him parallel to the horizon, his wings slashed by the red grass. 

Now to the second part. 

His nose looked up the sky, his wings embraced the wind and up he went, daggering the heavens. Once at a good heigth, he turned his engines off and then did what flyer really did call _falling_. 

The weightlessness.

The cliff came to optic level. He blasted his engines one last time and came back, transforming mid-air and landing on his feet.

He collapsed.

Panting, shuddering, something primal stirred in him: he'd forgotten how good this felt.

A shadow fell over him. Looking up he made optic contact with the most intensily contemplative gaze he'd ever seen. Then the sun came washed over him again as the other boarded the shuttle again.

Rays of sunshine caressed Snare's plating but he felt cold.

\-----------------------------------------------

Impactor had bought a berth.

It had the same dimensions as the one they piled up on and took up space in the already cramped infirmery/room/love hostel. He had put right next to the other.

"To make a bigger berth", he'd say. "More space. You should appreciate that as a flyer." Snare had winced. The verbal accusation had stung on his already sullen mood. The Wrecker had been more distant since the Predator's first flight. He didn't knock on his door as often, and when Snare had silently cracked the door to peek at him he'd seen him brooding in the pilot's chair. Now he got a bigger berth so he'd not be crowded by the Decepticon. 

Things were already starting to erode. He had hoped it would have lasted a little longer...

The Predator had to admit, though, it was less challenging to writhe and arch on a berth you weren't afraid to fall of. A part of him had hoped that _that_ had been the spurr for the decision. But then they'd reach their climax and untangled themselves, fans whirling, and he was very aware of the distance between them.

Disturbed beyond what he cared to admit, he'd pulled in his wings and curled on the side, back on the Wrecker. Silence had hung in the air. He knew the harpoonist wasn't recharging. He wondered if he was as troubled as he was. A feeling he had thought buried in deep started resurfacing. A special kind of despair only this time tingled with a spark wrenching sadness. It hurt so as it surged through his chest that he thought he might have gone mad.

Then he did it again. To retain his sanity, to keep on moving in this stupid life and the horrible things in it. He took a gamble on the Autobot.

In one movement he found his back pressed to the side of the Wrecker. That warmth that had brought him solace now seemed to burn. He couldn't bring himself to turn. Now he needed the other to reach out for him too.

Silence again. Thicker than the last.

He'd lost.

An arm fell on him. A mass shifted beside him. A body pressed back.

If Impactor felt Snare shaking, he never said. If he heard him hiccup, he never commented.

It had hurt how much he had _won_.

\--------------------------------------------

They had been on the deck when it happened.

A strange wave of energy. Pure white line of something that looked straight from another world. They barely had the time to see it coming before it was on them. Then they heard it.

_'The war is over. Come home.'_

Gone was the white. Blackness came back and pinpricks of lights were seen again. They had dazzedly looked nowhere.

Snare was the first to wake up from that strange stance. Then it hit him.

The war was over. The _war_ was _over_. The allegiances, the ideologies, the moral opinions were nulled. The animosity, the fighting, the senseless killing were seen as the pointless task they were. They could stop. They could rebuild. They could _heal_.

A whirlwind of strong feelings raged inside him and he felt nauseous. He was going to purge. He needed to in-vent.

His mask fell off with a loud clang, jolting the other two awake. His vents stuttered, his in-vents were ragged, he opened wide his mouth and gasped air inside his trembling body. Warm hands envelopped his shoulders and he lifted up his head to meet concerned optics. Bewildered optics.

And a gust of hot air on his bare face.

He had lost all he had left, only not. He had regained everything, only not. The sheer _size_ of what they had to accomplish now made his head turn. Things were nulled but not always in people's heads. Things were seen as pointless but not by everyone.

But now _the was over_.

He grasped the Wrecker's shoulders and wrote on his face all those feelings that were going through him, all those fears he had deep inside, all those incertainties he still had. He tried to shake that immovable frame to get his point accross, a strange half-laugh escaping his vocalizer in gasps.

He was met with just as much confused feelings but all were underlined with a strange determination. As hands on his shoulders were replaced by arms, the Predator knew he'd been right about not being able to leave if his mask fell. But now it was okay. Because now he wasn't the lost Decepticon who had nearly lost everything. Now he was the Cybertronian that could get everything back. 

And between the myriads of choices he now had, he chose _this one_.

His mouth met chapped lips, his body melted in an strong embrace, his spark echoed another.

"Get a room", he heard the little brute gruff.

Snare had laugh, and for once it wasn't hysterical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DONE! Now I can stop obsessing over this and actually get prepped up for my summer job!  
> I might write more for the "Within Enemy Territory" story since I got some real cute ideas from ExDreamer, but it'll be a bit like "It's Primus' Design" where I kinda wrote anything I got in mind and hope it works... only this time I really will just write stupid, fluffy/funny little moments without a real plot. It's called "venting stress out after taking care of 20+ kids at the same time".

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes, I rely a lot on "Warm Plating", I know. But it gives me the necessary leverage to write this couple as IC as possible.  
> It's important to say that the whole "medic/engineer" thing is James Roberts' idea, which he wrote about in "Zero Point". I re-used it here for the sake of the story.


End file.
